


It's Okay

by Moriartied



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fucked Up Relationship, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physical Abuse, no seriously this is not okay, there's a lot of pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:13:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moriartied/pseuds/Moriartied
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has always been there for Scott, and he always will be, no matter how far from okay their relationship is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Okay

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a longer work, but I have no motivation at the moment, so I'm posting this part. I'll delete it when I have the whole thing done... I'm hoping for 20k, but I'm a lazy fuck so we'll see.

Stiles stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. There are bruises on his ribs, distinctly finger shaped, and scratches over his pale bony hips. His lip is cracked, dried blood trailing down the side. He has a nasty abrasion under his left eye. People are going to ask questions. Again. He scrubs his hand over his buzzed hair. His eyes look hollow in the mirror. So do his cheeks. He’s too bony. Too frail looking.

He’d tried to remind Scott to stay away from his face. But that’s how he’d earned the split lip. The scrape on his cheek had been from Scott shoving his face into the rug, werewolf claws digging into the back of his neck as he fucked into Stiles from behind.

Oh yeah, his ass hurts too.

Scott’s been gone for almost an hour, and Stiles has been standing in the bathroom, bare feet on the cold tile floor, shaking and staring into the mirror. He wonders briefly how they got to this point and where the hell everything went so very very wrong.

When they were little, kids used to bully them. Stiles because he was, well, Stiles, and Scott because he stood up for Stiles. Which Stiles really appreciated. What he didn’t appreciate so much was how Scott treated him when they were alone. It started out as just words, Scott echoing the insults the bullies used against him in school, telling him he was a freak, a weirdo. He always said he was joking, but Stiles knew he wasn’t.

Then, when they were 13, Scott’s parents said they were getting a divorce, and everything changed. It was like something inside Scott just snapped.

The first time Scott hit him it wasn’t unprovoked. Stiles had been being a little shit, as per usual, and he’d pushed too far.

_“Dude you really suck at this game,” Stiles said, turning his head to look up at Scott after having won the fourth consecutive round of Call of Duty. Scott glared at him from the couch._

_“Shut up, you just keep getting lucky.”_

_Stiles smirked. “It’s not luck, it’s pure unadulterated skill. I am the master!”_

_Scott’s eyes darkened and his lips pursed into a thin line. “No you’re not,” he said sharply._

_Stiles cocked an eyebrow. “Uh, I just kicked your butt six ways from Sunday, give me a little credit here bro.”_

_And then Scott’s fist collided with his jaw and his head smacked back into the arm of the couch. When he blinked away the stars he was seeing, he turned to glare at Scott, “What the fuck was that for?” But Scott was staring at his own fist in something between horror and awe and Stiles found himself shrinking back._

_Then Scott bolted up from the couch, stumbling away in his haste to get out of the room. He stayed in the bathroom until Stiles knocked hesitantly on the door nearly an hour later saying he needed to get home._

_When Scott opened the door, his eyes were red and there were dried tear tracks down his cheeks._

_“I’m so sorry,” he said, reaching out to cup Stiles’ jaw, which was starting to turn a deep purple. Stiles flinched, and Scott’s eyes fell._

_“Don’t worry about it,” Stiles mumbled. He pulled away from Scott, hoisting his bag higher on his shoulder and turning to leave._

_Stiles had lain awake in bed that night, replaying the scene over and over, but somehow the part he couldn’t get out of his head was the feel of Scott’s hand on his cheek and the look in his eyes when Stiles had pulled away. The only thing he knew for certain was that he never wanted to be on the receiving end of that look ever again._

Stiles winces as he steps into the shower, the hot water stinging his cuts. He reaches for the wash cloth and gently dabs at his lip to clean the blood trail. Suddenly he’s shaking so hard he has to sit down on the floor of the tub. The scalding water pounds onto his back as he curls into a ball, head buried in his arms.

So much had happened between that first incident and now. It had taken two years for Scott to ask for sex. Two years of Scott beating the shit out of Stiles and then holding him close, petting his head, stroking his cheek, mumbling a mantra of “I’m sorry” over and over until Stiles stopped shaking. Stiles lived for those moments, held close against Scott’s warm body by Scott’s strong hands. 

When things get really bad, he just remembers the first time Scott kissed him.

_It was freshman year. Scott had gotten a D in biology. He came home and punched a hole through his bedroom wall, then he gave Stiles a black eye. Stiles cowered on the floor until Scott calmed down and motioned for him to crawl up on the bed. He wrapped his arms tightly around Stiles, rocking him back and forth. He ran his hands over Stiles’ short hair, cupping his cheeks and pressing their foreheads together._

_“I’m sorry,” Scott murmured, brushing Stiles’ tears away with the pads of his thumbs._

_Stiles shook his head, “It’s okay,” he promised, like he always did. And then Scott’s hands stilled, and Stiles was worried he’d upset him. His eyes widened as Scott tilted his chin up with his fingers and leaned down to press his lips to his. The kiss was short, and timid, but Stiles had never been happier._

Before Scott was bitten, sex and using Stiles as a human punching bag were mutually exclusive activities.  Scott would take out his anger, his frustration, his feelings of inadequacy, on Stiles, and then they would cuddle, they would kiss, Scott would make love to Stiles nice and slow, making sure Stiles enjoyed it, always waiting until Stiles came before he did. Stiles liked that. He liked being able to be what Scott needed, and he liked when Scott wrapped his arms tight around his waist and pressed soft kisses to his shoulders until he fell asleep.

It isn’t like that anymore, and it hasn’t been for a while. Now Scott comes home from work, or lacrosse practice, or training with Derek, and expects Stiles to be ready in his room the instant he walks in the door. And Stiles always is, because even if Scott doesn’t kiss him as often, doesn’t say he’s sorry, and makes him go home afterwards, he knows that Scott needs him, and that letting Scott do this to him  makes Scott happy, and he loves Scott so he lets it continue even when he ends up like this, curled up alone in his bathtub, tears mixing with the shower water which has long gone cold.

-

Isaac calls him out on it at school.

Well, more like makes fun of him, but Isaac doesn’t know the truth so it’s not his fault that Stiles feels a sickened pang in his gut.

“Did you walk into a door?” he asks when he sees the abrasion on Stiles’ cheek. He says it with that smarmy grin on his face and a chuckle. And Stiles tries to laugh, but it comes out all wrong sounding. Isaac claps him on the shoulder and Stiles winces as the contact jars his bruised ribs.

Stiles flops down into his seat in the back of history class. He hasn’t done his homework in almost a week, because Scott’s been stressed about money and school and the alpha pack and Stiles is so drained and exhausted by the time he gets home that he just crawls into bed and passes out. Someone’s going to notice soon, because Harris has already given him a detention for not handing in his lab report, and he’s one strike away from the principle calling his dad.

He takes out his notebook with the intent of actually paying attention, but five minutes into class he’s fast asleep, forehead in his book and arms flung over the desk. No one bothers to wake him up or ask if he’s okay, but when the bell rings at the end of class and startles him awake, Scott at least has the decency to look sorry. Stiles shakes him off though, because while it’s his fault, it’s not _really_ his fault. Stiles could say no at any time. He could tell Scott to stop, that it’s not okay anymore, but he doesn’t. So Stiles failing a test or two isn’t Scott’s problem, it’s his own, and he resolves to get his shit together so he can keep being there for Scott.

He skips practice to go to the library, because it doesn’t matter how many practices he goes to, he’ll never make first string.

Sometimes he thinks things would be better if he were a wolf. He would heal faster, for one. He wouldn’t have to constantly worry that Scott end up going too far and break a bone or anything. He would be better at lacrosse, not like that’s even important in the grand scheme of things, though for some reason it really is to Scott and Jackson. He could protect his dad from all the supernatural bullshit that this town seems to be a magnet for.

But he doesn’t want the bite. He’s turned it down more than once, and he’ll keep saying no, because he doesn’t want to be different. He likes himself the way he is, bruises, scars, and all. He likes being a human, even if that seems somewhat masochistic.

He pushes all thoughts of Scott out of his mind and focuses on catching up on all the homework he’s missed. He finishes chemistry and is halfway through history when Scott comes in looking upset.

“Why weren’t you at practice?” he asks.

Stiles raises an eyebrow and motions to the piles of paper and books around him. Scott winces.

“Oh. Did I do that?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, it’s my fault, I was slacking off.”

Scott narrows his eyes. Stiles might take longer than everyone else to get his work done—ADHD does that to you—but he’s never been a slacker. Scott slides into the seat next to Stiles and hunches down, elbows resting on his knees. He stares at his hands as he speaks.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Stiles tenses. He’s about to respond when Scott continues. “You… you don’t have to come over if you don’t want to. Ever. If you have work, you should do it. I can manage.”

And Stiles’ stomach sinks and there’s a lump in his throat. He thinks abstractly that he should be happy at this news, but for some reason, instead of relief, he just feels empty and used. Scott doesn’t understand. He doesn’t get how much Stiles cares about him. How much he’s willing to sacrifice his own health and safety to make sure Scott is happy. And sure, it was nice when Scott would cuddle him afterwards, but if Scott’s needs have changed, Stiles can be okay with that, and he will give Scott whatever he asks for.

So instead of setting Stiles free, this feels more like a dismissal. That Scott doesn’t need him anymore. And this moment is honestly the lowest Stiles has ever felt. He swallows and looks up at Scott with dark eyes.

“Okay,” he says, hollowly.

Scott pushes himself up and reaches his hand out to cup Stiles’ cheek. He runs his thumb over the scrape there and looks like he’s about to cry. Then he yanks his hand back and clears his throat. “I’ll, uh, see you,” he says, “around.” And then he literally sprints out of the library, leaving Stiles sitting there with a gaping hole in his heart and a pile of unread textbooks.

Stiles doesn’t cry then. He manages to hold it in until he gets home, then he sinks down onto the floor of his bathroom and sobs. He throws up twice before he manages to get himself together and crawl back to his bedroom.

He thought things were bad, but he hadn’t realized that they could get so, so much worse.

-

Almost a week later, Stiles is lying on his back on his bed, staring up at the crack in the ceiling when he hears a tap on the window. He rolls onto his side, away from the window, because he really doesn’t want to deal with anyone right now. He expects to hear the window slide up anyway, but is surprised when it doesn’t and the tapping returns a few moments later. Usually no one has any regard for his privacy. His room is like goddamn grand central station. After a few minutes he lets out a sigh and rolls out of bed, going over to pen the window. It’s Scott, and Stiles isn’t sure whether he’s relieved or concerned. He doesn’t say anything, but leaves the window open and returns to his bed.

Scott climbs in and drops clumsily down from the windowsill. His eyes are ringed with red and have dark bags under them like he hasn’t slept in days. Stiles’ wounds have mostly healed, except for the faint redness on his cheek and some of the bruises on his chest, so Scott actually looks a lot worse off. Stiles wraps his arms around his chest, leaning against the headboard, and motions for Scott to sit down. Scott sits as far away from Stiles as possible on the twin bed and stares determinedly down at the ground.

They sit in silence, until they both speak at once.

“I’m sorry,” Scott says at the same time as Stiles blurts, “I miss you.”

They both stare at each other and then Scott turns away.

“I’ve treated you like shit,” Scott continues. Stiles swallows.

“It’s okay.”

Scott shakes his head furiously, “No it’s not. It’s so far from okay.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t know what to say. Scott’s right, but Stiles can’t tell him that because he knows it will send him running, spiraling off into that pit of self-hatred and despondency and that’s the last thing Stiles wants, but he realizes that they’ve reached the point that he’s been trying to avoid for a while. Either they fix things, or they end them. They can’t keep going on like they have been.

Stiles wraps his arms around his chest, clutching himself with bony fingers trembling.

“I’m sorry,” Scott repeats, quieter this time, and not meeting Stiles’ eyes.

Stiles takes a deep breath, then hesitates for a long beat before speaking again.

“Do you love me?” he asks.

He knows Scott hears the pounding of his heart, because it’s like a hurricane force wind in his ears, and time seems to be moving impossibly slowly while he waits for Scott’s response. And Scott takes his goddamn time, staring as his hands like they’re going to give him some magic solution to all the shit that’s just kept piling up between them.

When Scott finally looks up his eyes are red and wet and Stiles’ chest constricts.

“More than anything,” Scott chokes out, and without even thinking, Stiles pushes up from the bed and launches himself into Scott’s arms, burying his face in Scott’s chest. Scott slowly brings his arms up to wrap around Stiles, holding him tightly.

“Things are going to be different,” he promises, cheek pressed against the top of Stiles’ head, and Stiles believes him, for now. He knows that they’ll always be a little fucked up, but he honestly doesn’t think he’d be able to live without Scott, and he knows he’ll hang on even if things get bad again. He relaxes into Scott, and doesn’t protest when Scott cups his cheeks in his hands and tilts his chin up to lean down and kiss him.

 

 


End file.
